


A Message in a Polished Boot

by alexandertheII



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexandertheII/pseuds/alexandertheII
Summary: Can anyone else totally imagine Hermione, waking up after a drunk night she only remembers in a haze, totally overthinking everything? Well, I at least can, so that is what this very, very short story is about.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 50
Collections: Harmony Advent Collection 2020





	A Message in a Polished Boot

It was a draught that woke Hermione Granger on the morning of December 6th, the small stream of cold air gently but insistently tickling her left ear, the one that was not pressed into the comforting warmth of the pillow that still smelled somewhat like…

Surprised at the sudden emptiness of the bed, she cracks open one eye, even as her hand begins feeling around the other half of the bed. Just as empty as she thought it was when she noticed there was only a lingering scent, not the real thing. And the space is where he had slept was cold, too, so he must have left quite a while ago, not that she would blame him; in the harsh light of the morning, lots of decisions made in the dead of night, affected by more alcohol than she would care to admit, seem much less wise, much less inviting. For example, that last shot of fire whiskey now seems like much less of a good idea than it did only… she looks blearily at her wall-mounted clock… Merlin, five hours ago.

Unbidden, memories of other things that happened under the insidious influence of Old Ogden’s come to the forefront of her mind; things were still a bit hazy, but if the scattered images and feelings weren’t enough to tell her some rather vigorous… she was looking for a more dignified word to replace one as emotive and descriptive as fucking right now.

A groan on her lips, Hermione let herself fall back onto her cushion, pressing her eyes closed. Unsurprisingly, it only throws into even sharper contrast the physical repercussions of the previous night. There was a certain ache all over her body, the good kind though, that let you know you did… something, and it felt like there were a few love marks scattered across her skin as well, a few scratches even. If her memories were anything to go by, he would not be looking much better.

Never one to dwell overly long (never, definitely not, not even when exams were concerned), she once again moved to get herself out of bed. Maybe doing something, _anything_ , would make things… well, what did she expect? More bearable, less awkward? They had had vigorous sex-while-drunk, now he was gone, leaving her behind with only hazy memories and a dull pain in her heart. Absentmindedly, she grabs her wand from the bedside table, waves it toward the window, the leakiness of which had woken her up in the first place, and places yet another imperturbable charm on it. At first, taking a flat that was a bit behind in renovations to save money had seemed like a good idea; after all, she could always magic things into working properly.

Now though, it had gotten somewhat tedious. the intruder alert she had in place of a security system, the warming charms on the taps, even the ones holding back the cold air of early winter in Scotland needed regular replacing, and as much as she enjoyed doing magic, it had started grating on her recently. Still, it was better than the alternative, than staying with _him_ , always having to rein herself in, trying, not to jump on him whenever… well, like all the time. And then she had to go and do _this_. Whoever had allowed Hermione to participate in what would commonly be known as ‘drunk-dialling’ was decidedly to blame here.

When she reached her kitchen, she threw another warming charm toward the sink, not wanting any surprises later, then meandered over to her fridge. Her empty fridge.

A sigh accompanies the realisation that, yes, she would have to go outside into the… oh, good, it had started raining in the time that it took her to move from the bedroom to the kitchen. To top it off, there was a memory of doing… things on that table; maybe she would have to replace it, if only to not be reminded of this night whenever she ate a meal. Almost numb from her still foggy mind and her worrying heart, Hermione moves, meanders back into her bedroom, where she now notices a pair of panties, the one she had worn the evening before, lying, or rather hanging on top of her bedside lamp.

How utterly disgraceful that looked, she silently judged herself; Hermione Jean Granger should not be losing control like that.

Decked out in a comfortable, worn sweater and an equally comfortable, if still somewhat dignified pair of pants (no jogging pants for her outside her house, as much was sure), she made for the door. Fresh air, she decided, would help with her foggy, pounding head, maybe let her remember more of how exactly she screwed up. The big problem, though, presents itself when she reaches for her boots.

So, with everything else, now her favourite pair of boots is gone, just like _he_ is. Maybe they left together. For a short while, that mental image, him wearing her favourite knee-high boots, manages to amuse her. Then, she remembers she has to make her way through the rain, still, now in her half shoes. Hermione pulls the definitely inadequate footwear onto her feet, takes her wand and keys, steps out of the door and… almost falls as her legs get caught in the very pair of boots she had just been looking for. And there, sticking out of the top of one of them is a roll of parchment. Filled with trepidation she grabs both boots and note, heads back inside, back to the kitchen,

Hermione unrolls the surprisingly small message, her breath hitching as she recognises the script.

_Dear Hermione,_

_When I was on assignment over on the continent, Germany to be precise (I know you like precision, admit you would have asked otherwise), I learned they have this delightful little tradition where, on the eve of St. Nicholas’ Day, children are encouraged to clean their shoes, put them out into the hall and then overnight, if the child was nice, not naughty, they would get a small gift stuffed into the boot._

_Even though you seemed to have been exceptionally naughty last night (hehe, I think I’ve been spending too much time with the guys from the corps) I took the liberty of leaving a message for you in this way when they called me in early this morning. You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t have it in me to wake you, only to tell you that some wannabe Death Eater is having an enchanted Santa statue run amok down in London._

_Anyway, I’m rambling._

_What I really wanted to tell you, what I didn’t have the guts to tell you before you blurted it out last night, drunk up to the gills (you’re a silly drunk, by the way): I love you too. I don’t know when it started, or how it happened, but with the break-up with… you know,_ her _… well, she accused me of cheating with you, that’s why I never told you what really happened. See, rambling again._

_Now they’re even calling my mirror, so it seems like this is important; I just wanted you to know that I love you too, especially after waking up to an empty bed. We can talk later, I’ll just come over once this mess is done with._

_All the love in the world,_

_Harry_


End file.
